


all this life we've had

by eternal_elenea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:02:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_elenea/pseuds/eternal_elenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Wide awake, fall again / Scratching at my wounds / Always in tune.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	all this life we've had

**Author's Note:**

> Title and subtitle from the song [Forget You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xhzRHKv-4AY) by the Cary Brothers.

" _Good match_ " is what Stan says to him at the net after a 142-minute blowout and Andy almost laughs derisively in his face. Stan’s face is earnest and Andy’s sure that he means well enough, especially considering he could be gloating or half-heartedly shaking his hand before celebrating in front of the crowd, but Andy really couldn't be less concerned with what Stan thought about the match.

Andy tries to be positive in these situations; has lived through enough beatings to have learned how to deal with bad losses. And this wasn't even one of the worse ones, so Andy’s not sure why he feels like he’s worn through, a ragged t-shirt that’s been used too much, threadbare and almost broken. Andy gets off of the court as fast as he can after the match finishes, disregards the fans at the entryway that still want his autograph and are clamoring for him, just as excited (maybe) as they would have been if he had won. Andy loves his fans and appreciates them – he thinks that he’s as good with them as anybody – but he just does not get how they think this is a good time for _autographs_.

There’s a line of photos of all of the past champions on the way back to the locker room and Andy spends a little more time (way too much time) looking at the pictures there. There are so many of Roger, he thinks, and the oldest has dulled just a bit over time but Roger looks no less vibrant in it, young and still new to winning. In one of them, he can almost see a glimpse of himself in the edge of the film, holding the runner-up plate, like he’s done far too many times, but that’s stupid since he’s never even made the final at the Australian Open before. Laughter bubbles up inside of him and out of his chest before he realizes it and he thinks:  _what the fuck, Andy, are you going senile_. There are pictures of other years, too, other memories, when he didn't even make the semi-finals, or the quarters. The memories have faded over time, just a little, and Andy’s grown used to this loss. It shouldn't hurt anymore, he thinks. He wishes it wouldn't hurt anymore.

Andy's always been quick in the locker room, even after a loss: just a change of shirt, packing up his shit, and he’s ready to go – ready to face the press because that’s really just part of the job. Today he lingers, brushes his fingers over the wooden benches and the edges of his locker door (for the last 9 years) and his limbs feel overused, more tired than they should and sluggish. It feels like the last time, even though Andy knows he’s being ridiculous. But, somehow, he thinks it might be getting close for him, that the hourglass might just run out of sand before he’s here again.

 _God, you idiot,_ he thinks, _stop being so fucking melodramatic_.

It’s not different to other losses; the routine stays the same. It’s the press next and then he meets with Larry to talk about the loss, about what he could have done differently and what they’ll work on. Before, he’s appreciated how calm and quietly optimistic Larry was, how they would speak about losses like they weren’t a big deal and how Andy would bounce back quickly, but he's started to hate it and he’s not really sure when that happened. He figures it was around the same time that he realized that he isn't good enough to be at the top of the men’s game anymore, but that’s probably a shorter time ago than it should be. Now it’s just frustrating for Larry to pretend that they can just go back to the same bag of old tricks that Larry’s taught him and he can put in even _more_ effort and they’ll be fine. Andy thinks about talking with Brooklyn and his assistant about firing Larry, about trying something new, because it’s not working. Vaguely, he wonders how much has changed in the past couple of hours, because it feels like everything looks a little different now and it feels different inside his own head (but that might just be the white-noise of loss).

That night when he’s back in his hotel room, phone thrown out the window because he’s _so goddamn sick_ of people calling him and telling him how good he is and how much they understand, Andy can hear the echoes of what they've said about him, sitting within the crevices of his mind. They’re mostly forgotten, pushed away deep into the dust and sitting like too-old photographs in the attic. But it’s times like these, when he’s lying on his bed and too far away from sleep and everything’s quiet, that they pop back out where he doesn't want them, that he thinks about them too much, too long, with too little hope.

It’s the same thing it’s been for at least four years: _What happened out there today? What are you going to work on now? How do you feel about being the last American standing? What’s happening to tennis in the U.S.? Will you ever win a slam again; will you ever beat Roger; will you ever, will you ever, will you ever?_

Andy’s sick about thinking about all of the what-ifs, sick of all of the questions asked over and over like he hasn’t thought about them himself a million times over – like these _fucking journalists_ have gained some spectacular insight that he hasn’t already.

Andy already knows what’s happening; knows what’s been happening for a long time now. He doesn’t sleep well anymore (though Brooke’s stopped asking about the way that he leaves the bed during the night and goes to sit on the balcony for hours, staring into the emptiness of the dark; he thinks it’s because _at last there’s some quiet_ ) and his body’s going, fraying at the edges, coming apart at the knees and the elbows and, he thinks hysterically, the brain. He hasn’t got much longer in him, probably, and he’s never felt closer to the end than he does now. Not even a few more years on tour before he’s discarded as the one-slam wonder American with the big serve. While Roger will be lauded for years, _for centuries,_ Andy will barely be a footnote in his legacy – not even good enough to be anything but Roger’s _second_ best rival. It’ll say: _Andy Roddick, 2003 U.S. Open and not much else, really. What do we care?_ He wonders if it’s too much to ask for a little bit more. One more slam, one more chance, one more... anything, really. One more breath, that’s all he’s asking for. But the air’s running out; Andy’s starting to choke under the strain of the tour of the young players and the majestic heroes of this tennis age.

He’s only got a few moments more, in the scheme of things. And he thinks that those moments will run out too fast. And he thinks that he’ll never be more than he was, fuck, 8 years ago, standing atop the podium as a _child_ , really. And he thinks that he’ll be left there on that court for only that moment and that the time left is far too short to do anything about it. It might not technically be the end, but Andy thinks it’s probably close enough.


End file.
